


Money Can't Buy Victory

by ednoppoz (zopponde)



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Blood As Lube, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Episode: s12e02 Hit and Run, Felix doing fucked up shit, Fucked Up, I'm Going to Hell, M/M, Necrophilia, RvB Smut Week, Stabbing, death during sex, several other warnings but tagging is super inefficient for that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-07-20 20:55:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16145333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zopponde/pseuds/ednoppoz
Summary: Felix does some fucked up shit here. I mean listen I'm all for the dramatic poetic imagery in fic descriptions but sometimes you just have to make some things abundantly clear. I don’t want the least bit of uncertainty what this is and what you are agreeing to expose yourself to when AO3 asks if you want to proceed and you say yes.There's some fucking, some wounds, and some wound fucking. If you’re not down with reading that then please do not read this. You will not like it, you will get nothing worthwhile, don't waste your time.





	Money Can't Buy Victory

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ConfessionForAnotherTime](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConfessionForAnotherTime/gifts).



> "Fuck OR die" is too mainstream for Felix, so this one is "fuck AND die"  
> A bad time to ask "is that a knife in your pocket or are you happy to see me"  
> Featuring a maneuver I'm tentatively calling "backwards blowjob"  
> I Could Not Be More Serious About How Dead This Dove Is
> 
> HMU if you need more trigger information etc. I'm probably going to try slipping it onto the Tumblr post but that's not up yet.

It’s a relief just to get away from Palomo’s fucking crying. The guy wouldn’t shut up about all the tragic losses of the day, trying to write a eulogy for his best friends. It’s been frustrating just to overhear, because Palomo really only knew them since last month when his other best friends died. Same sad story as everyone else on Chorus. Friends die, make new friends, rinse and repeat until you’re the friend that dies.

Felix is so, so glad he gets to ride the cycle instead of getting caught in it. He and Locus are going to walk away from the planet like they’ve walked away from every fight so far. Every asshole on the planet will die and Felix is going to strut out of the wreckage like a snake leaving a rabbit’s den. Chorus loses, Felix wins.

Walking back to the outpost is a satisfying reminder of how this will end. Whatever Felix told Palomo, this is the real reason Felix wanted to examine the wreckage: a tangible step towards the ultimate goal. Something to make it feel like there’s been some progress in this tedious plan. A stroll in the good omen of a red sunset, a vision of how this planet will look when Felix is done with it, what makes half the New Republic fear him while the other half swoons, why nobody has ever told him _no_ when he’s armed.

The outpost is still as a photo save for the odd trail of smoke rising in the still air. A couple dozen soldiers lay dead outside, and more inside. Some have debilitating wounds on top of a clean shot through the visor, and Felix knows Locus has been here to pick off the obvious survivors. Thorough as Locus is, Felix wants to find any others left clinging to life. He hates missing out on the best part after a big battle. Besides, when everyone’s wearing power armor, it’s so fucking hard to tell who’s actually dead and who’s bleeding out, paralyzed or too deep in shock to reveal themselves.

Wherever Felix goes throughout the compound, nothing picks up on motion sensors. He takes a moment to get into the Feds’ biomonitor readings, thanking Locus for the backdoor, and finds absolutely nothing. 100% fatality rate, of the armored soldiers still online in the vicinity. Felix sighs.

He’s on the way back out through the caves when a speck flashes on motion sensors. Felix looks at where it’s coming from: there’s a bundle of Fed corpses grouped around an explosion, like the idiots were watching the thing go off. They must have all bled out at different rates: one clutches her neck in vain, one curls around a stomach wound at the end of a short bloody trail in the mud, one turned his head and reached an arm towards a head that blew completely off another body. There’s only one with an intact visor, and her chestplate has been broken in half to reveal shrapnel implanted deep in her chest. Every shattered visor shows the face of death.

One arm flops towards Felix, the source of another flash on his motion trackers. Some fucker is still alive, a Fed with cobalt-lined armor. Felix approaches, wondering who he gets to play with today.

Felix rolls the body over with a foot and it sounds like a man who groans, flinching at the impact. The hand he had waved at Felix ragdolls with the motion, a piece of shrapnel embedded in it, and the other is missing a couple fingers, blood and bone exposed after the first joint. Felix’s boot comes away red, a souvenir from the bloody pockmarks across the soldier’s gut. His helmet is smashed, the visor shattered and the mouthguard wings broken away to expose a face, glassy-eyed and morbidly pale, but his lips twitch and Felix’s audio filter can just pick up the whisper. “Felix. You’re here… thank god.”

It’s Rogers, Felix realizes. Of all the soldiers dead here today, of course the last asshole alive is from the New Republic. Dumbasses are more determined than fucking cockroaches.

Felix is no expert, but it’s pretty obvious that Rogers isn’t gonna make it. If he didn’t have the strength or adrenal push to roll onto his back, his body must be at its limits. Must’ve gotten lucky not to have any organs hit in the gut, but Rogers has been in the process of bleeding out for a couple hours. Blood transfusion might fix everything, but that kind of medical help isn’t in Felix’s line of sight and, well, Felix isn’t here to save lives.

But Rogers has this relieved look on his face when Felix kneels next to him, so Felix has to let the guy down. He puts a hand over Rogers’ stomach wounds and feels the pained intake of breath. Felix sets his hand on Rogers’ forehead and then two fingers on his neck. He’s surprised to feel the pulse through two layers of underarmor. Maybe Rogers isn’t even so far into shock, maybe Felix could walk the guy back and have another lamb willing to sacrifice himself for the cause. Rogers would be in piss-poor shape by the time he got help, might even be dead, but it’d give the medics something to waste medical supplies on.

Then again, that’s really only delaying the inevitable, isn’t it? Rogers is going to die on Chorus one way or another. Might as well be today, here, alone with Felix, no living witnesses for miles.

Felix sighs, shaking his head, and watches Rogers’ face fall just a little. “There’s nothing I can do,” Felix says, faking sympathy. He pats Roger’s shoulder, gentle as hell, but the guy flinches anyway. Must have some internal bleeding, Felix figures, and feels his decision solidify. “I mean, other than put you out of your misery.”

Rogers can barely shake his head, but his voice gets stronger as he says, “No. No. That can’t…!”

“It's gonna happen. Soon,” Felix says, matter-of-fact. He doesn't share the part where it's a fate Rogers will share with everyone else from Chorus. “You look like you’re in pain. I could shoot you in the face, get it over with, if you want.”

Rogers hyperventilates for a minute. Felix almost tells him that it'll probably kill him quicker, but then Rogers licks his lips, tries to swallow, and closes his eyes. “No. No, I want to face death whenever it comes. Just save the bullet to kill one more Fed bastard for me, alright?”

“Sure thing. Least I can do.” Inconvenient for Felix, if Rogers does have a hope of recovery, but he can make it work. Mercy kills aren’t much fun anyway.

Felix leans in to bring his visor close to Rogers’ face, pushing the remains of the helmet out of the way to see the bits of shrapnel embedded in his cheeks. Rogers gasps his surprise, tensing, like so many men and women before him have gasped under Felix’s touch. Felix feels his cock twitch and knows how he’s going to kill Rogers.

“Hey, I have another idea, if you want to go out with a different kind of bang,” Felix says, voice low and seductive.

Rogers looks confused for a moment, but then he blinks into his realization. “You… want to…” He looks too embarrassed to even say it. “… with me?”

“With a face like yours? Who wouldn’t?” Felix pats Rogers’ face, dipping his palm in blood. Rogers only blinks, still surprised by the very proposal, even as he nods. “Thank you,” Felix says, and for once he doesn’t even have to fake the sincerity.

Felix runs his hands down the front of Rogers’ armor, and gets to the codpiece. He undoes the first seal and Rogers watches, his fucked-up hand going to his chestplate. That part’s hard enough to do with one intact hand, so Felix takes pity on the guy and takes it off once he’s unzipped the undersuit to expose Rogers from the untamed curls over his dick to his tailbone. “Should I, uhh…” Rogers shifts his legs apart, grunting but moving with more ease than Felix expected, and he takes the invitation to kneel between Rogers’ legs.

With one quick, experienced hand, Felix removes his own codpiece and frees his cock, stroking himself from half-hardness to something capable of penetration. The other hand rests on Rogers’ pockmarked stomach, feeling the tension of a suppressed flinch and the vibration of a pained whimper as Felix’s finger traces a wound. This one is particularly wide, nearly an inch of jagged wound just under where Rogers’ chestplate could have protected him. “This alright?” Felix asks and Rogers nods. Lucky for Rogers. Felix pushes into the jagged hole in the skin and Rogers’ whole body tenses, his head throwing back as he groans in pain. Felix feels the edge of something and smirks, adding his thumb to the hole and pulling the piece of shrapnel out along with a yelp from Rogers.

“Fuck,” Rogers cries as Felix flicks the shrapnel away. He takes a few breaths as Felix strokes his dick with a blood-slickened hand, too distracted by the pain to realize the lubrication used to work him half-hard. Once he catches his breath, Rogers groans, “Don’t--I think, sir if I’m--fucked anyway… you could just leave it.”

“Should I?” Felix asks. Satisfied with his work on Rogers’ cock, he brings a hand back to Rogers’ gut, reslicking his fingers in the tear he left with freshly oozing blood.

Rogers whimpers and nods. “Please--please just… don’t…” Rogers has another pained hiss as Felix pulls out with an ugly sound.

“Alright.” Felix slides his bloodied finger into the cleft of Rogers’ cheeks. He teases the entrance with a gentle press, just enough to get a replay of the gasp that inspired it all, before pushing into Rogers’ ass.

Rogers is quiet, reduced to a loud breath and a pained smile. Felix only knows he’s alive by the rising chest and the tightening muscle around his finger. “Come on, you don’t have to go out silent,” Felix says. “I’ve heard you’re usually a screamer. Nobody around to hear it, and no consequences would mean anything anyway, don’t be shy.” It’s technically a risk but it’ll be worth it if he can hear the moment Rogers realizes what reality he’s signed up for.

Rogers licks his lips and makes a soft whimper. Felix slides a second finger in and curls into Rogers and, with a full-body shiver, Rogers moans.

“Better,” Felix says. He fingers another shrapnel hole with his other hand, and the pained cry Rogers makes is much more like what Felix was looking for. It doesn’t take long to get enough blood to coat Felix’s dick, and Felix hums into the wave of bliss that rises as he coats himself. “God, you’re so hot. I always wanted to do this with you, you know.”

It’s a fucking lie Felix has told dozens of other soldiers on their deathbeds, but not a single one has snitched so far. Rogers buys it right up. “Y-you have?”

“Yep.” Felix slides his dick between Rogers’ asscheeks and presses the head against the hole, teasing even as he scissors his fingers.

Rogers has a soft, weak chuckle. Felix has heard him laugh before and it was never like this. But he sounds genuine when he says, “I kinda wanted it too. I should have--”

Felix shoves into Rogers. God, if he wanted this sentimental bullshit he would’ve gotten Palomo going on the eulogies and wanked to that. Luckily, Rogers gasps at the rough penetration, or at the fullness of two fingers and a dick, or at the speed with which Felix pulls out again for another thrust--doesn’t matter exactly, so long as he shuts up. Before he goes back in, Felix bends over Rogers’ face and murmurs, “Let’s not waste time with what could have been. I want you here, in this moment, feeling me.”

With eyes closed, Rogers nods, head tilting back as Felix pushes into him again. The motion tips his mouth open a bit more, stretching the wounds on his face as he groans out some meaningless word of pleasure. The only thing that would be better is if Felix had been the one to put those holes in Rogers’ cheek. He would have had the determination to go right through the flesh, watching spit rinse blood out of the wound as he made Rogers choke on his cock.

Felix pulls his hand out of Rogers to finger along the length of Rogers’ dick. “Can you still feel that?” he asks, keeping a casual pace to his thrusts.

“Y-yes sir.”

Satisfaction shoots through Felix. He has no rank in the New Republic’s army, but they all have such reverence that they won’t stop calling him sir, not even when he’s balls-deep in them, feeling them twitch around his cock. It’s his own work, building the propaganda to make him the strongest man on Chorus, and he gets to reap the reward. And in the end, if the kids think of Felix as a god and he’s the one who made them think it then, well, are they wrong?

With a pleased grunt, Felix shoves deeper into Rogers. “You like it?”

“Yes sir. Best of my life.”

Felix hums, wrapping his hand around Rogers, still only half-hard even as Felix runs a thumb over the slit. “Doesn’t look like the best.”

Rogers cringes. “I’m sorry. It’s probably--”

“Shh. Don’t ruin this with apologies.” Felix picks up the pace of his thrusts into Rogers’ ass, covering for the motion his hand makes to his knife. “You’ve been bleeding out for hours now. You’re probably just doing the best you can.” Felix draws the knife silently, hovers the point over the fingered wound. “But I know a way we can still make this real damn special, if you want.”

Rogers nods eagerly with a curious glance, and then his eyes fly wide open with a startled scream as Felix stabs him, the slightest upward angle from the opening of the wound. He feels the blade drive through muscle, tearing deeper than the shrapnel ever had.

Slowly, Rogers lifts his head to look at the cause of his pain. He sees the knife buried to the hilt and his stumped fingers lift, hovering over the wound. The other arm spasms like he wants to react with it, but his muscles are too weak to lift the unresponsive hand. His one remaining fingertip touches the hand Felix has wrapped around the knife, and his lips work like an actor who forgot his lines. Finally, soft words come out, jostled unevenly as Felix resumes thrusting into Rogers. “You--you want this?”

“Wouldn’t have done it if I didn’t.”

With a shudder, Rogers drops his head back down with a nodding motion. “Then I’m glad,” he says, but his voice is tight and his eyes clench around the pain.

There’s a certain point when the hero-worship is less flattering than it is irritating, and that moment is when a dumbass won’t even complain about being stabbed. Takes the fun right out of it when the victim doesn’t even try begging for mercy.

Felix twists the knife as he thrusts into the flinching tightness of Rogers’ ass. Rogers grits his damn teeth through it, barely fucking whimpers. His eyes chance a peek at Felix, uncertain but accepting. Past the point of caring about his life, and willing to accept more pain in his last moments. Felix will have to find a bigger threat to make, then.

When he pulls out, Felix crawls forward instead of thrusting in. He straddles Rogers, sinks until Rogers flinches away from the gentle touch of Felix’s ass to the open skin of his stomach. Rogers curls in on himself as the knife pulls out, reflexively defensive, and holds his head up as Felix lines himself up, watching Felix’s face with reverence like they’re having some poignant moment of intimacy.

“You ready?” Felix asks.

“Yes.”

It’s so damn obvious that Rogers has no idea what’s next. Felix lines up and eases into the wound slowly just to see the transformation on Rogers’ face: pain, alarm, confusion. The stumps on his hand reach as if they’ll give him a better answer to the mystery, and instead of the hilt of a knife he grasps the four exposed centimeters of Felix’s cock.

The confusion succumbs to horror and fear, accompanied by a quickening of Rogers’ breath that shifts his insides in a way that makes Felix’s toes curl in his boots. Rogers shakes, feeling as Felix pushes further and further in, wide eyes shining with tears as he lets out a desperate groan. Like a plea of some kind, inarticulate because he doesn’t know if he’s praying to Felix or to some other, kinder god.

“That’s better,” Felix sighs as he buries himself completely in Rogers’ bloody warmth. “Knew you’d be good for something someday.”

At this, Rogers makes a pained sigh and leans back again. “Good,” he whimpers, and the act of speech flexes muscles around Felix’s dick. His fucked up hand cups Felix’s balls like this is what he always wanted. Even as he pounds a steady rhythm into Rogers’ chest cavity, Felix feels Rogers trying to relax, accepting his fate.

Felix growls, pissed at Rogers’ compliance. What’s it take to get a guy afraid of a goddamn murderer? Felix wraps a hand around Rogers’ throat and presses until he can see the fearful white of Rogers’ eyes.

Rogers blinks a tear out of his eye, face flushing almost to normal. His breath runs out and his chest spasms, trying to pump air through a closed tube. Two more tears run streaks into the blood of Rogers’ face, and Felix decides that it doesn’t have to stop yet. He releases Rogers’ throat and feels muscle contract around his dick as Rogers gasps, coughs, gasps again. Felix holds his hips still and Rogers flexes around his cock like a whore taking a ride.

Felix resumes his thrusts at a slow pace, teasing himself as his cock drags against the tight hole in the skin. Rogers shudders as Felix pulls the head of his cock out, pressing the slit against the weeping wound. He holds there long enough that Rogers tenses in anticipation, but the dumbass isn’t prepared for him to ram right in there. Rogers can’t keep stop himself from sobbing any more than he can pull fresh tears back into his eyes or stop them from running through the bloody pockmarks of his face. Felix brushes a hand over Rogers’ cheek, and he barely reacts, eyes clenching marginally tighter as Felix swipes his thumb through the blood and tears.

He thrusts a little faster, a semi-conscious response to the mounting pleasure radiating from his cock. Pleased, Felix glances down at Rogers, sees that he’s watching, and grins. Felix keeps rolling his hips, pushing his dick through shredded muscle and pulsing viscera until the whole length is embedded in Rogers.

Every thrust sends another tear from Rogers’ eye, another brushstroke of blood on the ruined canvas of his face. Rogers whimpers, then sniffles, and then he’s sobbing softly, holding his breath like he’s trying to stifle himself. His eyes close like that’ll keep the tears in, then open like he needs any sense to focus on other than pain. The remains of his hand hover, clenching periodically, looking to grasp anything as an anchor. Rogers bumps into Felix's knee and exhales, creeping his hand up the back of Felix's though. He closes his eyes and he keeps flinching with every thrust, but as his hand reaches Felix’s ass he manages the trace of a smile on his lips.

Rogers cups Felix’s ass, bony stumps poking against toned muscle. It's a whole new way for him to feel every miniscule adjustment Felix makes as he violates Rogers’ ribcage, but Rogers sighs with relief. He breathes out a single word and sounds satisfied with it being the last thing he ever says: “Nice.”

Dumbass has himself convinced there's a silver lining for him here. Asshole won't even look at the man fucking him to death.

Felix slaps Rogers across the face. Rogers cries out, fingers twitching against Felix's ass as he Felix maintains his thrusting pace.

“You still with me?” Felix pants.

Rogers nods slowly, sobbing again.

“Good. Thought I'd lost you already.” Felix reaches for an explosive charge off his belt, hiding the motion with a sheathing of his knife. “Be a shame if you missed out on the best part.”

Rogers’ eyes widen. There’s another sickening glimmer of hope, and then he sees the explosive. He shakes his head, grits his teeth with horror. “No. Don't. Please.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

“I’ll do anything, please, just...--”

Felix finally slows the rate of his fucking until he’s slowly sliding out, centimeter by centimeter. He nearly doubles over to bring his helmeted face closer to Rogers’ to hiss out a response. “Tell me, what can you actually do now?”

Rogers whimpers.

“Exactly. That’s all you can do now,” Felix says, leaving the head of his cock holding the wound open. “The only thing left in your life now is me, doing whatever I want to you. The only thing left of you is an organic toy for me to play with.” He slides a finger into the knife wound, stretching the skin, and watches Rogers’ face close, holding his breath to keep from crying. “You can beg. Cry. Struggle. Pass out from the pain. Try to keep a straight face. Sing the fucking alphabet, it doesn't matter. I'm still going to do this.”

Felix pulls his dick free. Rogers sighs automatically, but Felix pushes the explosive charge against the wound and Rogers’ grimace suggests he’s still in a little bit of denial. The explosive is too wide to fit until Felix takes his knife again, cutting the edge of the wound until the charge slides into Rogers’ thoroughly fucked chest cavity.

Rogers can’t stop from hyperventilating now. He breathes like he knows the number of breaths left in his chest and he wants to get them over with. Felix spreads his hands over Rogers’ ribcage, feeling the shallow rise and fall, pressing on top of the grenade to make sure it's buried. “Don’t worry. You know it won't go off until I want it to. And I know you don’t want to get put out of your misery yet.” He grips Rogers’ hair and stands, dragging Roger into a sitting position. “You know, not many people get to taste this part of themselves. Want a taste?”

Rogers’ lips twitch, uncertain, staring down Felix’s blood-covered erection with disbelief even as Felix pulls him closer. He tries to pull back, but Felix’s grip is firm and the idiot can’t even keep his mouth closed, face blank as the head slides through his lips. Felix feels a tongue flick over the head of his cock and a whimpering recoil into his hand.

“Come on, you can do better than that.” Felix grips his other hand around Rogers’ jaw, sighing happily as Rogers’ throat seizes, gagging on his dick. He keeps thrusting in, rubbing his cock across Rogers’ tongue and feeling Rogers shiver as he tastes his own gore. His tongue stills slowly, struggling spasms replaced with horrified quivers. Easier to fuck, but not nearly as satisfying.

Felix pulls his dick out and Rogers’ mouth goes slack, lips only gently parted, staring vacantly. “What, dead already?” Felix asks, tightening the hand on Rogers’ skull.

Rogers gasps gently, throat working futilely. His lips strain to mouth something that could be _not yet_. Catatonic, but obviously still breathing.

“Perfect.” Felix brings the knife back out, leaning over Rogers to trace the point up from his sternum, dancing over undersuit and then vulnerable skin. Rogers doesn’t react, eyes barely twitching thoughtfully. Knowing this is the kind of move some vanilla dumbass does when they think they’re into knives. Trusting.

Felix tilts Rogers’ head back, pulling him up, and waits. As Rogers hits the bottom of his last good exhale, Felix stabs into the center of Rogers’ neck--away from the arteries, just a simple breach into the trachea and a quick pull out, before Rogers can finish his wet gasp. He lets Rogers catch his breath, eyes glistening with tears as he looks up at Felix, but the wound bleeds so damn slow. Not gonna be practical to wait for the rattled breath of blood-filled lungs.

Felix presses the head of his cock against the wound and Rogers shudders, clenching his eyes shut. More tears squeeze out, gravity pulling them straight back to his ears, even before Felix thrusts right into Rogers’ neck.

Rogers’ throat works, trying to swallow the dick. Felix sighs, pleased, as Rogers continues the instinctive attempt to clear the blockage, effectively massaging Felix’s cock. Rogers tries to gasp like he’s shocked things could get worse, or yell like anyone will be able to help, or keep his last audible words be a futile plea. Still a member of the New Republic, unable to roll over and fucking die. It’s never been so useful for Felix as it is now, as he starts to shift his hips into the flexing muscle of Rogers’ neck.

“Oh, there we go.” Felix manages two slow thrusts before he gets impatient, groaning as he realizes how close he is and how Rogers has started to relax, eyes shifting from pained to something that could be asleep. Rogers’ eyebrows tense slightly when Felix picks up the pace, humping furiously into Rogers’ neck like an oversized fleshlight. He feels subtle vibrations on and off, like Rogers is still trying to make pained whimpers, lips twitching ineffectively, swallowing with a flinch whenever his dick hits a certain depth.

Felix tips Rogers’ head back, eases his jaw open, and watches the back of Rogers’ mouth as he fucks his neck. At the peak, he can see the tip of his cock, rubbing against the back of Rogers’ tongue. Felix shudders with pleasure and pauses, watching his cock leak precum where Rogers can just barely taste it. He imagines when he’s done and Rogers tries to swallow his cum, muscles probably too damaged to do it properly, forced to lie still and wait for the taste to dribble down into his stomach. He’ll probably die with the taste of Felix’s seed on his tongue, one of so many fluids reduced to their most entropic actions.

Or maybe Felix will skip it. Probably best to use the detonator as soon as he’s at a safe distance. Rogers will get ripped apart from the inside, nothing left of him but neurons trying to signal pain to a disembodied brain, and then those will fade into bloody dirt.

Felix shudders pleasantly at the thought, hands gripping tighter around Rogers’ neck and head possessively. Rogers belongs to Felix, the man in control of every detail left in Rogers’ short, short life. He slides Rogers right onto his dick with ease, nearly pulling out completely before ramming back in, keeping a rapid pace, watching his cock poke out Rogers’ throat like a fishing float before the fatal reeling in.

He grunts with a final shove and watches as his dick spits cum onto the roof of Rogers’ mouth. He makes a subtle rock of his hips as he rides the orgasm out, committing the image to memory for some lonely scouting mission in the future, waiting for the final pulse of seed to drip onto Rogers’ tongue.

Felix sighs as he slips out of Rogers. “Good job.” His thumb caresses Rogers’ cheek like he can just wipe the blood off like that, patronizing.

Rogers must’ve opened his eyes at some point, presumably content to watch the Fed outpost shake upside-down. He’s wide-eyed but otherwise blank-faced, unfocused and unresponsive. Catatonic, Felix thinks, but then he realizes how heavy Rogers’ head is in his hand. Rogers’ chest is still, his jaw slack, his arms limp. Felix slides a finger under Rogers’ jaw, feeling a fading warmth in place of a beating pulse.

Anger sparks in Felix’s gut and he drops Rogers’ lifeless body to the ground. “Motherfucker couldn’t even hold out on me,” Felix says to himself, disgusted. He’d been looking forward to killing Rogers properly, watching the fucker die and knowing the sound of his last breath. If he’d been looking to fuck a corpse, Felix could have picked any asshole off the grounds, wouldn’t have bothered with Rogers except to curbstomp him out of his misery.

The only consolation is the fact that there’s still a clear winner. Felix zips his satisfied dick back into his suit and covers it with the codpiece. Felix presses the remote charge further into the wound in Rogers’ chest with a satisfying squelch. He doesn’t get the thrill of watching a man realize how dead he really is, doesn’t get the terrified pleas or stunned silence, but Felix still gets to stroll away from a corpse.

Felix goes back the way he came and, once he’s reached a safe distance, turns back to see Rogers. There’s no panicked yelling, no clawing at the wound, no stumbling run away like he’ll get out of transmitter range in time. But Felix detonates the charge and watches the spray of blood, the jagged tear through the center of a body, the splatter of gore that nobody survives.

Most people on Chorus will die for Felix’s cause or at Felix’s hand. Rogers got to do both, but he’s just as dead as the rest of the planet. Felix walks away victorious.

**Author's Note:**

> Ostensibly fits into at least two other fics I've posted but that wasn't technically intended so don't worry about it I guess.
> 
> seerofbread.tumblr.com/support  
> Fic-specific rebloggable link TBA


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